


Drinking Game

by nivu_vu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Ford's only there in spirit, I mean in body, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nivu_vu/pseuds/nivu_vu
Summary: The worst part was that Fiddleford knew he couldn’t hate Stanford. No matter what Stanford did, Fiddleford would rather forget the pain and regrets over holding such a terrible grudge. But if Stanford could learn to say sorry, Fiddleford wouldn’t mind at all.This... wasn't what he wanted, though.





	

It was an honest-to-God miracle that the glass bottle didn’t shatter when Fiddleford slammed it down onto the countertop. Stanford was once again pissing him off. Fiddleford liked to believe that he was a man of even temper, but Stanford Pines had the uncanny ability to push every, single button Fiddleford had. And today Stanford had hit the worst one with all the delicacy of a free-falling anvil. Today, he’d almost gotten Fiddleford killed.

In that way, Stanford was a one-man game of Russian roulette. Stupid. A death risk. But a nerve-wracking thrill that couldn’t be matched by anything else.

Stanford would be the man to change the world; Fiddleford knew that. He’d never seen a bigger brain on anyone’s shoulders, but he’d also never seen a more inflated head. He wished there was a better way to forget that irritating latter half instead of having to drink until the world was spinning. Speaking of which, Fiddleford took the last sip and then tossed the empty bottle into the garbage can. It landed in the container with a hollow sound that eerily resonated with how he felt inside.

He sighed, making his way to the room that Stanford had set aside for him. How he actually arrived at his intended destination was another miracle in and of itself. All the floorboards on the way were fuzzy, and the doorknob to the room wouldn’t come into his hand. Fiddleford cursed under his breath. It took a good fifteen seconds to get a firm grasp on the darn thing. And he didn’t even bother closing the door behind him, beelining to the bed and collapsing on it.

Stanford had probably long gone to “sleep” (A.K.A. passed out on his work). Fiddleford hoped that the man would wake up with a crick in his back. It’d serve him right.

Fiddleford would never understand why his foolish college-aged self felt romantic attraction towards Stanford. Zanily magnetic, Fiddleford used to say. Now it was more, like, annoyingly annoying.

He buried his face into his pillow, wallowing in how miserable he was. A part of him still clung to that attraction. Not in any substantial way. No, he was married now. He had a son. His love for his family was certain, but…

There was still an embarrassing amount of times he’d caught himself marveling at Stanford’s dexterous hands, or tracing the outline of that strong jaw with his eyes, or - _worst yet_ \- the times he’d checked out Stanford’s ass like some charlatan. 

Fiddleford decided, then. He’d change his middle name from Hadron to Woe. That would be fitting.

The sound of footsteps in his room brought him out of his pity party.

He sat up and adjusted his glasses. “Stanford? What’re ya’ doin’ up at this ungodly hour?”

Ford grinned, “You.”

The word and its implications took a moment to process in Fiddleford’s alcohol-addled brain, but when it did, he jumped up from the bed, face flushing red. “What in heavens are ya’ on about? Did ya’ hit your head too hard?”

Maybe Stanford had been drinking, too.

No, even when Stanford had been nauseatingly inebriated, he’d _never_ said such untoward things. At least, not to Fiddleford.

In the blink of an eye, Ford had Fiddleford’s back pinned to the wall, wrists held above his head in one large six-fingered hand. Fiddleford didn’t remember Ford being able to move so inhumanly fast. Sure, Ford had his ridiculous health regimen, but this was beyond any capabilities Fiddleford had ever seen Stanford exhibit. It must’ve been the alcohol dulling his senses.

He was about to say something when Stanford leaned in, breath hot against his neck, and whispered, “I always knew how you felt. It’s kinda cute how pathetic your attempts to hide it are.”

A chill ran down Fiddleford’s back. He hoped it was fear. He _really_ hoped it was just fear. “I’m married, now,” he protested.

But words were another thing than actions, because he easily spread his legs to let Stanford press a thigh against his groin. It was the alcohol, Fiddleford reasoned. It was making him a weaker man than he was.

Stanford kissed Fiddleford’s ear. “She doesn’t need to know. Just like how you don’t let Fordsy know all about your dirty fantasies about him.”

“Wha-“

Ford’s free hand slipped under the hem of Fiddleford’s shirt, tugging it up. His thumb idly drew small circles onto Fiddleford’s waist as he taunted, “C’mon, you think I don’t see it? How you want to bend me over and make me scream for you?” 

Fiddleford gulped. He had – shamefully – imagined such filthy things before, but he’d hidden it well. He was sure. There was no way Stanford should’ve known, right? Unless, he’d somehow (drunkenly) let it slip before. But if he had, why would Stanford wait until _now_ of all times to act upon it? Was this some twisted way of apologizing for putting Fiddleford’s life at risk again earlier?

“Y-you’re mistaken,” he lied.

Ford tilted his head back and _laughed_. It was… unnatural. Unlike any laugh Fiddleford had previously heard from Stanford. Then, he stopped abruptly. “Prove it.”

Fiddleford wasn’t given a chance to retort because Stanford’s mouth was on his. A deep, repressed instinct made Fiddleford part his lips, and Stanford responded in kind. It was a violent kiss, unrestrained, and Fiddleford would be lying – even harder – if he said that he wasn’t putting some of his earlier frustrations into it.

Ford released the skinny wrists in his hold to grab at Fiddleford’s shirt with both hands. He dragged them onto the bed and pulled Fiddleford on top of him. The movement was jarring enough to make Fiddleford remember his intoxication, and he was forced to break the kiss and put a hand to his head, to try to stop the world from rotating too fast.

Ford was laughing like that again as he laid on the covers. That dark laugh that would make a sober Fiddleford leave immediately. However, as things were, Fiddleford was standing between Ford’s legs where they hung off the bed and clumsily trying to undo his own fly. It was hard to believe that these were the same hands that were able to tinker with fine machinery with only candlelight for illumination.

Stanford sat up and impatiently batted Fiddleford’s hands away. He muttered something that Fiddleford couldn’t quite hear. It sounded suspiciously like “humans and their clothes”, which was too strange to not have been misheard. That alcohol was still majorly kicking his ass.

Yes, that was the _only_ reason he was doing this. He wouldn’t be doing all this, or even _wanting_ all this if it weren’t for all the liquor he’d imbibed earlier. It was just the drink. Yes. That had to be the only reason.

He was drawn out of his weak rationalizations by a warm tongue lapping at his slit. Fiddleford looked down to see Stanford on all fours on the bed, eyes half-lidded, and hungrily taking his cock into his mouth.

When Stanford realized that he’d caught Fiddleford’s attention again, he calmly took one of Fiddleford’s hands and placed it on his hair. Fiddleford didn’t quite understand until Stanford gave a particularly hard suck to his dick, and Fiddleford’s hand tightened, roughly grabbing a fistful of Ford’s locks.

Before the fear that he’d hurt Ford even registered, Ford let out an unabashed moan. Fiddleford hesitated. Such a debauched situation with his _research partner_ was far beyond his field of expertise. Coding and circuitry were certain things. _This_ , however… Whatever the hell _this_ was, he couldn’t get a good handle of. 

Apparently, Ford, on the other hand, was merely exasperated with Fiddleford’s internal turmoil. He pulled his mouth off Fiddleford and leveled an annoyed gaze up at him. “I want you to fuck me, not stand there and cry.”

Fiddleford opened his mouth but was unable to come up with any intelligent response to the accusations thrown his direction.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?”

Fiddleford’s vocal chords remained despondent to his wills.

Ford wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wow, I guess you really are a coward. You know, maybe I’ll find a better assistant. Someone who actually has the balls to-“

Fiddleford cut him off with a harsh yank of his hair. It was the alcohol. He’d never treat a lover so roughly if it wasn’t for the alcohol.

 _A lover_.

No. Ford wasn’t-

“Hah! That’s better!” A disturbing, predatory grin spread across Ford’s face.

“Shut up,” Fiddleford ordered. And, oh, did it ever feel good to finally say that.

Stanford smirked, “Make me.”

He lowered his mouth onto Fiddleford again, and he was raising a mocking eyebrow when Fiddleford found the pent-up resentment within to just force himself down Ford’s throat.

And Ford was choking. Selfish and arrogant Stanford Pines was choking around his cock, and a small part of Fiddleford was glad – glad that Ford’s gag reflex was trying and failing to work, throat opening and closing around Fiddleford’s dick. Tears welled at the corners of Ford’s tightly shut eyes as he attempted to suppress his throat’s resistance.

Fiddleford was regrettably a kind man at heart, though, so he let Ford’s throat gradually and completely adjust. Then he pulled back so that only the tip sat inside Ford’s mouth. This time when Stanford looked up at Fiddleford, it was with needy, expectant eyes.

Fiddleford was much happier to oblige now. He held Ford’s head in place by his hair, and let go of what little reservations that still remained – he thrust hard and fast into Ford’s welcoming mouth and kept that unrelenting pace. 

Fiddleford was breathing heavy, heart racing, panting interrupted only by grunts from the heated exertion of it all. He couldn’t help wanting to take Stanford like this. Ford’s mouth felt so good, his tight, wet throat like it didn’t want to let go. Sharp whimpers escaped from Ford periodically – Ford was enjoying this, he’d asked for this – and it only spurred Fiddleford on further. He didn’t know how long he could have of this heaven, and he sadly didn’t currently have the mind to savor it. It would be later, then, because there was no way Fiddleford would forget this image – Ford on his hands and knees desperately whoring his mouth out for his personal use – he wouldn’t give this memory for the world.

Fiddleford’s hips twitched more erratically as he approached his climax. And then it hit him hard, his knees feeling weak as his orgasm took everything out of him. Fiddleford slammed his cock in deep one last time, and Ford twisted his hands into the sheets as he struggled to swallow the load emptied into him.

The aftershocks were just as overwhelming. Fiddleford could only hold himself inside Stanford’s mouth while he rode them out. And it was a good while for them to subside. Eventually, finally, he took a deep breath and gingerly disengaged himself, a thick trail of saliva and come still connecting the tip to Ford’s lips. 

And _God damn_.

Fiddleford was winded.

Stanford rolled onto his back, probably even more exhausted than Fiddleford. He was gasping for air, but there was a very satisfied look on his face. Then Fiddleford noticed something of even greater interest than Stanford’s blissed out state – Ford had come in his pants, simply from letting Fiddleford fuck his throat.

Stanford probably saw where Fiddleford’s gaze was directed because he said, “Not bad.”

Leave it to Stanford Pines to still be unimpressed when he’d just had an orgasm, untouched, from having his throat fucked raw.

Fiddleford scowled. He couldn’t even enjoy the post-coital high.

Ford propped himself up on his forearm. “Why the face? Thought you had a good time.”

There was something even more obnoxious about Ford’s tone tonight, but Fiddleford didn’t have the mind about himself to figure it out. Much less the damn to give. Instead, he just tucked himself back in his pants and left.

He’d sleep on the couch. Ford could have the room tonight.


End file.
